


The Limits of Devotion

by LittleHidingPo



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Ableism, Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Sex, Aliens, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Bondage, Casual Ableism, Cock Worship, D/s, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Inspection, Look its Prime so its gonna be sketchy and technically dubious even if the clone is into it, M/M, Masochism, Mind Games, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Painplay, Sadism, Sexual Content, Sexual Repression, Sloppy Makeouts, Submissive Character, Torture, Torture Porn, Unconsciousness, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27273991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleHidingPo/pseuds/LittleHidingPo
Summary: One of Horde Prime's clones is wracked with guilt. He wants to be absolved of his horrible urges. How will Lord Prime react when the clone presents himself to Him?
Relationships: Horde Prime/Horde Prime Clones (She-Ra)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter contains no Explicit content, but I expect later chapters will. You have been warned.

“You are _enjoying_ this.”

It’s not a question, because of course He knows. But the surprise is evident in His voice.

The clone would express shock of his own at having surprised Lord Prime in any way, but the metal-shod foot on his back takes most of his attention--and his breath. His body’s natural panic is kicking in, desperately trying to draw air into lungs that have no room to expand thanks to his Lord Emperor’s weight pressing him down on the cold metal floor. He can only manage shallow gasps and futile tugs against the cuffs that bind his hands behind him. 

And in all the great universe, this is exactly where he wants to be: Beneath Horde Prime’s heel.

So when the weight leaves him, he must hide his lack of relief. Easy to do when a hand scoops him up by the jaw and drags him to a kneeling position. The bound clone is forced to look into Prime’s four-fold gaze, and then there is no hiding anything.

This is routine for the Emperor, shuffling through a peon’s mind. Usually it is for reports, battlefield data, and other daily needs. Information that could be conveyed by speaking, but with none of the accuracy or detail as seeing into the memories for one’s self. 

But now the clone is laid bare. Instead of dispatches from far-flung outposts of the Horde, Prime pulls from him the terrible, twisted desires that drove him to the throne room today. 

_It was a clumsy, humiliating plan. Forward. Presumptuous. But how else could he offer himself up for the pleasure of His Light? He’d bound his own hands and waited, kneeling, in the throne room for his master to come. He’d thought of removing his clothing to make his intentions even more apparent, but in the end there was a limit to how much humiliation he could impose upon himself. He’d just have to wait and pray._

_When you shared a mind with a living god, your prayers were more often than not answered. Just, perhaps not in the ways you’d expect. He would never presume to know what Prime thought when He entered the throne room and saw a trussed-up brother seeming to pray to His seat of power. He didn’t ask why. Perhaps in His infinite wisdom, He already knew what was wanted. Prime kicked the clone down and held him there. The clone had struggled, needing to explain first, but Prime had pressed harder. The clone’s last breath had been a weak moan._

_And now Prime knows it was, indeed, a moan of joy._

The mind meld is brief, but revealing enough. When he is released from Prime’s mental hold (but not His physical one), the clone shuts his eyes, shame and embarrassment making tears swell behind his lids. 

_I’ve insulted Him,_ he thought. _He will be disgusted by my aberrant desires. Why did I do this?_

_Because I’d rather die than live another day without the punishment I deserve._

It’s senseless. It doesn’t matter. He’s here now. That, in itself, is its own relief.

Prime shifts His hold on the clone’s jaw, lifting him higher, higher, until his toes barely brush the ground. Oh, Light and shadows, this is it. 

The clone is tossed aside like trash. With his hands clamped behind him, there's no breaking the fall--his cheekbone strikes the floor with a resounding _crack_. Stars dance on the edge of blackness, and even his ears ring with the pain. He can barely hear his own raw cry. 

Thankfully, his Lord's voice always cuts through any barrier. Even in pain, the clone could never escape that sonorous rumble that rolls through his mind as well as his ears. 

" _Come here_."

Black spots still dot the clone's vision, but he struggles back to his knees anyway. Prime has settled onto His throne, legs crossed elegantly. The clone can't help but admire the shapely calves and muscular thighs on prominent display. He shuffles to the throne, still on his knees. He daren't speak without invitation after being thrown about. 

"Closer, brother."

The clone's breath catches. He keeps his eyes lowered as he comes face to face with Lord Prime’s knees. A metal claw sharp enough to slice throats lightly presses his chin upward. 

This face shouldn't affect him so. He has been alive for many cycles now and is familiar with his big brother's features. And yet. He can't seem to draw a full breath, so distracted he is by Horde Prime’s beauty. Something deep in the clone's core clenches, something that should be unfamiliar but which has made itself too well known each time he beholds his master's body.

This is why he offered himself up today. If he is to be a slave to his body's reactions, then let it be by His grace. Or, failing that, let the affliction be purged by whichever method He sees fit.

The anticipation is torture as Prime merely examines him. There's a quirk to His lips, the smallest smirk. Perhaps He finds the clone's state amusing rather than disgusting. That brings little comfort, though--he has seen Prime's mirth turn to a piercing cold disdain in an instant, and His unlucky object of attention tended to not survive such turns unscathed. 

The clone wants his Lord's punishment… but not His ire. 

"You seek pain," He says. Another simple statement. He thumbs the clone's cheek, pressing where a glorious bruise must be blooming. “And you seek to please me.” The clone whimpers, remembering how _hard_ he hit the floor. He can't help his voice. Isn't this exactly what he sought? Why, then, is he crying?

"Poor little brother. Such turmoil inside you. You must feel fit to burst." Prime’s purr _does things_ to the clone, things he has few words for, none of them fit for a god’s ears. The tears redouble, and the clone commits a dear crime. He pulls away from Prime’s hand and tries to hide his face. 

The clone expects to be struck or grabbed, to be somehow corrected for his mistake in turning from His Light. His cheek throbs in time with his frantic pulse. 

The moment stretches on. He has his eyes squeezed shut. When will He strike? 

A touch on the top of his head. He flinches involuntarily. Why won’t his body cooperate? He forces himself to still, eyes still closed. The touch comes again, at the crown of his head.

A large hand, lightly rubbing at his hair. 

There is no pain. Even the ache in his cheek dulls as wonder takes over.

He opens his eyes and peeks up at Prime.

The Lord Emperor looks down at him with regal poise. He strokes the clone’s head again, minding his claws. 

“You truly are pitiable,” He says. “You seek punishment, though you’ve committed no crime.” He raises his free hand to ward off the clone’s objection. “You are wretched and lost and have acted out of confusion. But you chose correctly to come to me.”

The clone gapes in awe. Prime pets him again, and the clone can feel his spine loosening, relaxing, under His touch. 

_He’s not angry._

A sigh escapes him. He almost closes his eyes again to enjoy the movement of Prime’s fingers through his hair.

Prime continues, “Everyone has a place in my empire. Even poor, tortured souls like you, little brother.” He presses the clone close until his cheek rests against His Imperial Knee. 

For a moment the clone tenses, unable to believe such intimacy is allowed. But it is by Prime’s will that he remains in this position, if His continued petting is any indication. So the clone slumps against His legs, all fear and misery draining out of him to be replaced by bliss and love.

 _Yes… He loves me still. I truly am blessed._ He almost begins to cry again, but the contentment radiating from the gentle motions of Prime’s hand has him too calm to do so.

“That’s right. Be at Peace. We shall work on absolving you of your… distracting urges another time,” Prime promises.


	2. Chapter 2

The pitiable clone tries to count each blessed second that he is at Prime’s knee, but the numbers fade into meaninglessness against the stroke of His fingers through his hair. All he can figure is that it is a few minutes before He speaks again.

“The cuffs,” He says. “They add an interesting note to your sweet hums.”

The clone blushes to his ear tips, ducking his head. He couldn’t control the little trills coming from his chest. “I… I thought I was to be a prisoner, my Lord. Only the innocent may walk free, and I feel very guilty.”

“ _Tsk_ ,” chides Prime. “Have we not already established that no crime has happened here? Allow me to release you.”

The clone inhales sharply as Prime leans forward, His bare chest scant inches from his face. He does not resist as Prime thumbs the biometric lock and overrides the mechanism. When He leans back, holding the cuffs, the clone finally exhales.

With hands now free, the clone finds he doesn’t know what to do with them. He clasps them together, but that’s awkward with his kneeling position, so he rests his palms on his knees instead. It takes concentrated effort to not bunch his hands into tense fists, and he squirms with the undirected stress.

Prime watches this dance with interest. “It seems you are more uncomfortable without these on, if such a thing is possible.” He stands and extends a regal hand. “Rise, brother.”

Slowly, reverently, the clone places his hand in Prime’s. There’s true strength in how He helps the clone up, lifting him rather than passively supporting his balance. Prime does not let go immediately once the clone is on his feet. His claws lightly drag at the soft underside of the clone’s wrist, and he shivers. Prime only smiles at him.

“Go now in Peace,” He says, voice serene and smooth as velvet. “Receive maintenance for your injury, then resume your duties. And,” He adds, “speak of this to no one.”

That will be no difficulty--the clone is filled only with overflowing adoration for Lord Prime, which is the default state of any brother of the Horde. The details of this encounter will only be perceived if someone specifically digs through his memories--and the only one who ever does that stands in front of him, nodding a dismissal. The clone bows low and backs away, only turning when he reaches the ramp leading to the exit.

\---

It is a number of cycles before the clone receives the summons. It’s little more than an additional item on his ever-updating directory of priorities, and he doesn’t even notice it until it is bumped to the primary position in his attention.

 _Stand by in throne room as before._

Behind the words _as before_ is the flavor of a memory without the specifics of true recollection. The underpinned feeling gives enough context to inform him of the nature of the summons, and he eagerly rushes to obey.

Once again, he arrives to an empty room. But this time he stands as he waits, proudly at attention. To receive a personal summons feels almost blasphemous -- he and his brothers are interchangeable, after all, single cells making up the great organism that is the Horde -- yet he can’t help but glow with the feeling of being specifically wanted.

And, of course, nerves. But only the ignorant or very foolish to go to an audience with Horde Prime without some trepidation.

The nerves overgain his pride the longer he waits. But his instructions are clear. _Stand by._ No other task has been assigned to him. In fact, he feels oddly… isolated. The internal ticking of assignments has ceased, and the normal background noise of his brothers’ thoughts has faded to a distant murmur. Not gone, but far enough away that he feels alone both in body and mind for the first time in his memory.

He’s mulling over the unfamiliar feeling when his arms are seized and wrenched behind him and claws press to his neck. He struggles, but the grip is ironclad and the claws dig into his throat, cutting his voice into a strangled gurgle.

He freezes when Lord Prime growls in his ear, “Did I not specify to come here ‘as before’? Why,” He flexes his claws against the clone’s neck, “are you not shackled?”

The clone’s mind whirls. _Of course_ that context had been part of his instructions! Not some whimsical reminder of what a lovely time they'd had. He is a fool. Clasped against Prime’s solid chest, he can only wheeze, “Forgive me… brother…”

The clone’s heart slams against his ribs… but it also swells with a strange _satisfaction_ at his position. Only his dwindling sense of self-preservation keeps him from leaning into Prime’s grasp. The gift of His touch, the force of His grip, it all makes the clone feel so… _real,_ even with the menace of an irritated god at his throat.

He’s aware of every minute shift of Prime’s weight behind him, the thoughtful loosening and tightening of His claws, and His every even breath. That breath puffs out in a not-quite laugh. “Even now your reverence overcomes your fear,” He says, low. “No, not just reverence… Adoration, desire, and so much _hunger_ …” He sifts through the words like analyzing raw data, as if trying to find the one input that pulls each integer into perfect sequence. The clone can only remind himself to breathe every few seconds while Prime takes His time. He inhales, as if he could consume the clone’s roiling emotions along with his scent. When He breathes out, the clone can feel the warm air flow over the port in the back of his neck, and he whimpers, just barely audible. The spot is sensitive, and the puff sends a phantom prickle down his spine and through the branches of his nerves. 

Finally, after aeons, the iron grip releases him. The clone stumbles forward a step, surprised. Prime strolls past him to the throne, where He promptly sits and props His chin on His fist. The clone stays where he is watching and being watched.

“You interest me,” Prime says. The clone blinks. “I see an opportunity in what you have brought me. Few are able to see the transcendent potential of pain, and fewer still are equipped to handle it. There’s a clarity in pain one cannot find elsewhere. Most think a life of Peace is one without pain, but pain is necessary. You have the potential to truly embody the idea of suffering in the name of purity.” Guilt wrenches at the clone and he makes to speak, but Prime stays him with an upheld hand. “Yes, even when mixed with certain more base desires. Even because of such. What is desire but the yearning for release, however momentary, from the needs of your mortal form? The feelings that are crushing you even as you listen to me now speak to incredible promise.” 

He steeples his fingers and smiles as if He can see the clone’s confusion. “I will indulge your urges and help you find purity in release. But we must establish a… rule.” Prime crooks His armored forefinger and beckons the clone. It takes a mighty effort to move one foot while pinned by those discerning eyes, but he does it. Then again, and again, like a puppet not in control of his body until he stands before the Emperor. 

Prime holds out a hand, and the clone thinks back to when He helped him to his feet, the power in that offering. The clone takes it, and Prime shifts His grip so His thumb presses against the tendons on the underside of his wrist. 

“Just one rule, for now." He says. "When I hurt you,” Prime digs his claw into the tender flesh, drawing a gasp from the clone, “you may beg for me to stop. Say it.”

The clone gapes, not understanding, and Prime presses harder. “Beg me to stop,” He says conversationally as the pressure builds to a sharp agony. 

The clone feels the bones in his wrist creak, and he struggles to obey. “P-please, stop.”

“No,” Prime says, and the clone can feel his skin split beneath Prime’s claw. 

If this continues, He may break the clone’s wrist. He thought he could withstand anything for his Lord, but the panic wells up and he pulls futilely. The words come easier after the first plea. “Stop! No more, please! I’m sorry!” 

Prime’s hold is unshakable, His smile equally so. “I care not for apologies. But if you truly can take no more…” the clone groans as pain ratchets up his arm, “... you say ‘mercy’.”

When the clone again fails to comprehend, Prime’s claw digs another layer deeper, and the clone screams as He hits a nerve. “Please, no! Mercy!”

The pressure disappears. In a moment there’s a _click_ and the feeling of a plug sliding home in his port. A wash of relief flows into his body, and he can feel soothing serum begin making emergency repairs to his broken blood vessels. The clone falls to his knees, cradling his wrist. A steel-capped boot touches his chin and tilts his head back. Prime is watching him with a faint smile. 

“‘Mercy’ will only be shown when asked for,” He says. “Otherwise, no matter how you may beg or scream, I will continue to bring you pain. You must ask for ‘mercy’ only if you can take no more. That is my rule.”

The pitiable clone can find nothing to say. Prime’s needle withdraws from the clone’s neck and reinserts itself in its host’s port. Then He leans forward to stroke the clone’s cheek, a dash of verdant blood staining His thumb. And even now the clone tilts his head into the hand that moments before was crushing his wrist. 

“Tell me you understand, little brother.” His voice is softer now, almost tender after the brutal treatment. Perhaps He regrets causing such damage. The clone doesn’t mind. He feels he pleased Prime somehow just now, though he hardly knows what just happened. He’ll take pain a thousandfold more severe if it means earning such approval again.

“I understand, Lord Prime.”

“Good. Now, let us test the limits of your devotion.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Let us test the limits of your devotion._

It turns out, Prime’s first test will be the most difficult of all.

“Remove your clothes, little brother. We wouldn’t want them to be soiled or otherwise damaged.”

The clone hadn’t imagined his limit would be reached so soon, but here he is, hesitating. When the thought crossed his mind before to present himself to Prime bare, it was merely an idea quickly dismissed. Yet hasn’t he already bared everything else to Prime? What is physical nudity compared to having one’s mind and most shameful desires laid open for Him to see?

At length, the clone replies, “Yes, big brother.” He stands and unclasps his cowl. But when reaches for the near-invisible zipper at the base of his neck, he finds his hand won’t quite obey him. It is nearly numb from the healing agents working on repairing his wound. He fumbles with his one good hand, but can’t manage without both.

Prime sees his struggle and says, “Ah, but of course. Here.” He rises from the throne and beckons the clone closer. 

The clone’s eyes widen. The Galactic Emperor, helping with a lowly soldier’s garments? He can’t disobey a direct order, but neither can he allow his Lord to debase Himself so. He stammers, “There’s n-no need, I have--”

“Here. Now.” The smile doesn’t leave Prime’s face, and His voice holds only a hint of an edge. 

With a gulp, the clone closes the space between them. He turns when Prime gives a lazy twirl of His armored finger.

Prime tugs the zipper down in one smooth motion. He brushes a hand along the nape of the clone’s neck, over the port, and beneath the edge of the cloth. He draws it aside, exposing a bare shoulder. The clone stares ahead, seeing nothing, feeling only the graze of the sharp metal claw over his skin. 

His foremost urge is to pull the clothing back up, to cover himself as he is used to. But he's stuck, unwilling to stop Prime's hand, Prime’s will. The cowl crumples in his own nervous claws. 

Prime clears His throat suggestively. The clone needs to remove his arm from the sleeve in order to continue. Does he want to continue? Should he beg for mercy and a reprogramming? No, no, Prime _called_ him here, Prime wills his cooperation. It is his duty to follow the command of these light, all-powerful hands.

So he pulls his arm free of the sleeve with slightly more force than necessary. There's a single syllable chuckle from behind -- thankfully He seems more amused than impatient, for now. 

The clone frees his other arm… then hesitates again, clutching the loose cloth to his chest. A sigh from behind. Two hands now rest heavy on his shoulders. Prime murmurs in his ear, "I sense your feelings, pitiful one. Your anxiety comes off of you in waves. Fear not." He slides his hands down the clone's upper arms. "I worry more for you if you were to keep these desires bottle up." The clone turns his head. Prime, _worried_ for him? He catches the edge of a smile, a half-lidded eye. "We could both do with release," He continues, His hands traveling from the clone's elbows to his waist, fingers tucked beneath the dress. The clone trembles.

"Hmm, still no good," Prime says. His hands grip the clone's waist harder and spin him around so he is facing Prime. The clone's ears fold down, and he averts his gaze, though this close to Him there is only His face or His chest to look at, and both make his heart stutter.

"Poor, timid thing. It's no wonder you prefer to be restrained. Otherwise your own hands work against you." The chest rises and falls with the words.

"F-forgive--"

"Enough." The clone expects a strike from that tone and squeezes his eyes shut. Instead, once again, he feels a hand on his head. It combs over his hair, down the back of his neck. He feels metal drawing a ring around his port. "There are other ways to make you _unwind_." The claw clicks against the port's side, then it's in the opening, and the clone can feel it tapping against the hardware inside.

A circuit is bridged. A jolt goes through the clone from head to foot. If not for Prime's hand on his waist, he would have stumbled. His eyes fly open. Another jolt sends spasms through his hands, and he drops his dress. He’s now bare but for the black tights sheathing his legs.

And he doesn’t care, because the prying of Prime’s claw sends signals directly into his nervous system, triggering confused bursts of electricity between synapses. “Ah!” he gasps at one particularly strong flare, and then again and again in escalating pitch as the full-body shock continues. It isn’t painful, yet. It’s as if every neuron that had been inactive is now awake, firing off sensations at random.

He finds he’s clutching at Prime’s chest, but horror for such brazen behavior is overwhelmed by the waves of _feeling_ rolling through him. He finally looks up into Prime’s eyes, and his gut lurches (not unpleasantly). He is smiling, looking serene as He tinkers with the port. The clone’s mouth moves, but he can’t form words.

Then there _is_ pain when the claw pierces deeper, localized and sharp. It’s almost a relief, a sensation that has a tangible source. His legs are weak, with most of his weight being held up by Prime. Panting, he can’t help but lean his forehead against His collarbone. All decorum is lost. 

“There, there,” He murmurs. “I will care for you.”

The claw stabs deep once more, and the clone shuts down.


	4. Interlude: Prime's Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Touching of an unconscious person. If this makes you uncomfortable, this chapter can be skipped without losing the thread of the story.

Lord Prime catches the pitiable clone as he falls. While He cups the lolling head against His breast, His fractal mind coalesces His thoughts into this one room, keeping out all others of the hivemind. Only then does He reflect on the burdens of ruling.

So many are blind to His light. They shake their fists and gnash their teeth and raise armies against him. Toy soldiers sent to everlasting darkness, never to know true Peace. Countless civilizations have had to be extinguished because of the foolishness of rebels, often led by only a handful of the truly irredeemable. Such waste always saddens Him, angers Him. 

Then there are those blinded  _ by _ His light. Too awestruck to function, easily overwhelmed by a glance or a word. The distance His majesty creates between Him and His people is necessary, but the paralysis it engenders is, at times, tedious. This isn’t the first acolyte to come to Him with forbidden desires--though the hunger simmering in the mind He holds now is of a particularly intense flavor. 

Usually, He enjoys the challenge of bringing down their barriers, bit by bit. It’s kinder, certainly, to let them open up under their own willpower. Less traumatic.

But this day, He is impatient. Really, this poor creature’s troubles are, in fact, welcome. Here is one He can save from  _ unwanted _ suffering… while releasing some of His own pent-up frustrations.

He hefts the clone into His arms, the body so much more relaxed now than in waking. The mouth is parted as if ready to take on a gasp of life as soon as He commands it. 

Just a little preparation, first. 

The throne is the only convenient surface to rest the clone on, so He does so. Prime amuses Himself thinking how scandalized the acolyte would be were he to awake nearly naked on His seat. An entertaining enough possibility, but He has other plans in store. 

Hands now free, He gives a brisk snap of His fingers. 

Around the throne’s dias, panels slide open, and steel-ringed cables rise with purpose. They are extensions of His will, and the manacles at their ends clamp down on the pitiable one’s wrists and ankles. He rises, a limp puppet. 

Some time ago, these devices had been used for a special kind of entertainment when He held court with guests. “Diplomats” who had been sent to infiltrate Horde Prime’s domain would be put on display when the time came to parlay directly with the rulers of their world. That style of audience has fallen out of His favor in recent centuries as the number of civilizations worth directly negotiating with had dwindled to none. But He does rather miss the pageantry.

So it is with pleasure that He flexes the apparatus like an old limb regrown. The cables writhe around the unconscious clone’s body so as not to put undue stress on his limbs. Prime cannot feel through them, but they efficiently bring the pitiable one wherever He desires.

Currently, that is up close, horizontal, at eye-level for inspection.

Prime rests a hand on the clone’s abdomen. It is deathly still in his powered-down state. Not even a twitch at His touch. He runs His hands over the supple body, checking for abnormalities. Not that any of His brothers could hide defects from Him, but it is good practice to observe for one’s self the integrity of their conformation.

They are made in His image, after all. Every potential vessel must be beautiful and perfect.

This one is a model example. Strong limbs that move smoothly when He positions them. Unblemished skin soft under His fingers and a uniform cobalt blue. Healthy claws and teeth.

It will almost be a shame to break this one. Yet He is eager to see how far he can be pushed.

At the clone’s waist, He catches the edge of the tights and pulls them down, tossing them aside with the rest of the discarded garments. 

The puppet strings maneuver the clone once again. Spread this thighs. He surveys the crux between the pitiable one’s legs. He knows some acolytes experiment, alone or with one another, and their fumbling, secretive dalliances amuse Him enough that He allows it. But this one’s sheath is tightly closed, with only a thin line of moisture coming away when He runs an exploratory finger along the slit. Aroused, but not relaxed, even in sleep.

Oh, this will be interesting indeed.

He pauses for a moment, then, with a wave, He sends the clone off to the side. If He is to be hands-on with this experiment, He may as well do so comfortably. He unclasps the pauldrons at his shoulders and sheds the top half of his garb, leaving the skirts for now. Dropping the cloth, He raises His arms and arches His back in a stretch, relishing the flex of His muscles and the freedom of movement. 

It really has been too long since He indulged His more vicious urges. What a gift this poor creature has offered.

Time to begin the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am sending up this offering to [LadyBinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBinary/pseuds/LadyBinary) in thanks for her part in saving my hard drive <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief gore here, but it's enough that it's officially time for the "Graphic Depictions of Violence" tag. It's all downhill from here, folks.

Initializing…

Visual: Null  
Voluntary musculature: Reboot  
System status: Green  
Biological status: Green  
Hivemind: Admin only

"Wake, little brother."

The clone opens his eyes. At first the light hitting his retinas doesn't make sense. Unprocessed data. It takes an extra moment for his brain to catch up and sort the colors into a cohesive image.

"Oh…" he gasps softly.

Prime stands before him, naked from the waist up. Cool light that must be from the fan-shaped computer screen paints His contours in greens and blues that meld naturally on His cobalt skin. He smirks, as if pleased by what He sees. Something is off, though. Prime is looking slightly _up_ at him.

Then the clone notices his own position. He hangs just off the edge of the throne dias, suspended by cables wrapped around his arms and legs, his back to the fan screen. He blinks, confused. “My… Lord?”

“Welcome back to the land of the living, little brother. Are you comfortable?”

“I am… not uncomfortable.” Stars, Prime is beautiful.

“Good, good.” Prime takes a step closer. “I know you prefer to be fettered, and since you clearly misunderstood my orders--” at this his eyes tighten, a hint of a glare that’s gone just as quickly, “--I had to improvise with an old device. It should be somewhere in your memory, though I doubt you’ve seen it for yourself in your lifespan.”

Unsure, the clone briefly closes his eyes again. From his genetic memory comes a vision. 

He sees alien creatures strung up in steel manacles, their bodies dangling over the void beyond the throne. Ichor drips into the blackness from grisly wounds. Slashed throats, spilling intestines, and, below them, the huddled forms of living beings, staring at the scene in horror. Thousands of glowing green eyes hover on the balconies that ring the edges of the throne room, watching.

And as ever, Prime, reigning over it all. He lounges on His throne, arm outstretched, an armored finger pointing, sentencing those foolish enough to rally against Him to doom. The expression on His face content, confident.

The clone’s eyes snap open. The same calm face looms before him. His heartbeat races. This is a death trap, surely. Why else would Lord Prime show him such ancient history? 

He tugs at the sinister bonds uselessly. The image of exotically-colored blood running in rivulets down the cables burns in his mind. It is alluring, in a way, but fear grips him as surely as the cables. He does not want to die. Hurt, yes, even bleed, but not die.

His dry lips form words. “Brother, please forgive my transgressions. I-I was a fool, blinded by my aberrations.” In a smaller voice he adds, “You promised I would have absolution.”

Prime reaches out, cupping the clone’s cheek in one hand. “And you shall have it. This is no threat, pitiable one, but a promise. All of my children get what they deserve, and so shall you.” He leans forward, murmuring in the clone’s ear, “Do you remember how you can make it all stop?”

The clone’s mind searches and, for once, comes up with the correct answer. “Mercy.”

“That’s right.” Prime lingers by his face for a breath before pulling away. “I would not lose such a fine potential vessel, after all.” 

Instantly, joy washes through the clone, and his ears perk up at the complement. Him, a vessel to the Prime! To even be thought of such in passing is the highest honor he could dream of.

_The echo of his brothers’ agreement is missing, where are his brothers, this quiet is strange._

“Hush now, it is only us.” Prime trails His fingertips down the clone’s neck, and the clone is suddenly very aware of how bare he is. Before embarrassment can set in, Prime seizes his throat in a fierce grip. The clone gags and his world spins as the cables twist him about. Then he is facing the fan screen, and it’s much closer to the dias than usual, close enough that Prime can slam his head into the glass. The rest of his body is stretched taut by the living bonds, spread-eagle against the cold material.

He sees stars at the impact. Once again his cheekbone will be bruised. But Prime’s hand remains warm on the back of his neck. It feels like stability and comfort amidst the shock of pain.

A growl in his ear, picking up the former topic: “Indeed, we are fortunate we have the medicinal capabilities we do. There is little I could do to your fine body that could not be fully repaired within a few short cycles.” As the clone's gut wrenches, Prime's talon pricks his chin. “Now, where shall I start?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The Graphic Depictions of Violence escalate greatly here. There are detailed descriptions of pain and injury. Please take care of yourself and do not read if you are uncomfortable with such topics.

_ "Now, where shall I start?" _

The clone is to choose his own torture? What can he possibly say? His mind is strung out from too much thinking, from worrying about which words to speak. He wants to relinquish control, not make decisions.

Though, this incredible situation  _ is  _ of his own making.

The grip on the back of his neck is absolute. The talon draws a line down his throat. He needs to answer Lord Prime, but his mind can't clamp down on any coherent idea. All senses are focused on that single dangerous point. The longer he goes without speaking, the harder it presses to his windpipe. He won’t be  _ able _ to speak soon enough. Not with a gaping hole in his throat.

Hysterical laughter bubbles in his chest, and he tries to swallow it down (a mistake -- the movement catches at the talon).

Really, he’s still stunned to be here at all. And perhaps being slammed into the fan screen rattled him too much. He's tense and frightened and confused, but he's also …

Excited.

"Clah--" The talon lifts slightly when he finally finds his voice. He tries again. “Claws. It would be an honor… to receive purification by your own gracious hands. If it pleases you, Lord Prime.”

A chuckle. “It’s a start. We’ll loosen you up yet.”

The clone takes a deep breath when the talon lets up. 

It's not that pain physically feels like pleasure. The clone knows he doesn't have his wires crossed, so to speak. His touch receptors function as intended, and his body strives to avoid damage, for which pain is necessary.

But when Horde Prime inflicts it… it is different. Transcendent.

When He sinks the armored talon into the meat of his shoulder, he jerks in his bonds, as if he could escape the penetration. There’s nowhere to go, pressed up as he is against the glass. He can only gasp and let it happen.

Slowly, He pulls. 

Cheek to the screen, the clone watches his skin part like flimsy cloth. He can't look away. The cut is so sharp and clean that he barely feels it, even as it grows longer and dips out of his field of vision -- until Prime flicks the talon backward, splitting the wound open to the air. The clone hisses as the pain crescendos and blood wells up.

The hivemind, so eerily quiet, gives a strange lurch. The all-encompassing presence of Lord Prime, normally the sky to the inner world of the hive, cocoons the clone, lapping up the burst of sparks that ignite at the drawing of blood.

"Hmm, not bad," Prime says mildly. The clone feels His claws alight on his other shoulder, the one he can't see. "But I will hear more from you."

"Aah!" The clone obliges immediately with a shout when Prime carves trenches through his skin using unarmored claws. He's rougher this time, dragging open the flesh with none of the subtlety of the metal talon. It burns, and the clone pants as if he can channel the pain out of his body using breath. 

_ That’s right, sing for me, inside and out. _

His mind and body are reacting with alarm. His system tells him to cover the wounds, staunch the bleeding, seek medical treatment immediately. In Prime's sterile ship the risk of infection is negligible, but that doesn't stop the programming that ticks off the steps he should take to minimize risk. He uses all of his considerable strength against the cables encircling his arms, to no avail. Laughter that is not his own echoes in his mind.

Then, as the burning continues, his processing seizes up.

This is no battlefield injury. 

This is Prime's will.

At the same time as the natural and logical panic, he feels  _ release.  _ The physical outpouring of pain feels like impurity being purged from his body, leaving him emptier, lighter. Every part of him is  _ awake. _ Ensconced as he and his brothers all are in the buzzing of the hivemind, the clone has never felt more present, more substantial, than in this moment.

Time ticks by, and his panting turns to sighing. Pain is pain, yes. But it is also living.

And Prime's hand is blessing him. He has stopped His journey down the clone's back, and he wishes he could see his Lord's expression. Is He pleased? Distracted? Stars, what if He's bored? He has never been able to comprehend the vast mind even when it tangles with his own, as it does now.

Then, behind him, the Regent of the Seven Skies brings His face close to the bleeding claw marks … and  _ inhales. _

Even though the cuts still burn, the clone shivers.

"Your fervor is intoxicating," Prime says. "Such a cascade of emotions all from a simple scratch." The clone feels the pads of His fingers daub at the dripping blood. It certainly feels like more than a "scratch" to him, but he trusts Prime’s perspective over all. Perhaps the clone is simply weak.

Prime backs away, and cool air stings the clone's wounds. Where is he going?  _ I can take more, I swear, I-- _

There's a mild grunt of effort, something flashing through the air out of the corner of his eye, and then --

Searing agony, pain that doesn't abate no matter how he screams, lines of fire arcing from shoulder to opposite hip so his entire back is a wall of torn nerves, and his voice bounces shrilly off the glass, his ears are ringing from it, but nothing, nothing compares to the pure anguish that Prime has slashed into his body. The clone writhes and sobs and shouts wordlessly as the pain sinks its teeth deep into his muscles.

He feels he must radiate heat -- his arms tremble and sweat beads on his forehead. His screams taper to elongated moans, though the fire doesn't diminish. It does coalesce into distinct lines, the topmost of which burns sharpest. Prime must have used all of his claws, including the metal talon, which has cut deeper than the rest. 

Prime. 

Where is he? 

_ Big brother… _

"I am here, little one." Prime rests a hand on the clone's hip. A needle-tipped tube floats into the clone’s vision, glowing with the liquid inside. “I can take the pain away… if you wish.”

The tube caresses the clone’s cheek, offering blessed relief. “No,” the clone whimpers in a small, ragged voice.

“No?” Prime draws out the word. 

The clone whines. The needle tip touches the corner of his mouth, as if he could suck down the healing serum, if he chose. Cool reprieve, so close. “No…” He will not break yet. He can… he can take… “M-more.”

The needle-tipped tube stills, and for a moment the clone worries he’s erred in some way. It’s difficult to think. He feels as if he could float, given the freedom. So he’s glad he’s tied down, for he doesn’t want to leave Prime’s presence. 

A soft laugh. “Oh, you  _ are _ interesting.” The hand on the clone’s hip creeps up his side in a firm stroke. Prime’s normally warm hands are cool compared to the heat of his wounds. The clone lets out a moan. In his mind, His presence squeezes, wringing out the clone’s conflicting desires.

He can’t lose himself in the embrace. The burning has him securely in physical space. But he tries to convey his love and adoration, equally bright as the pain.

_ I see you, little brother. Your agony honors me, for it is pure and honest. _

The clone trills, a sound usually reserved for times of utmost comfort. He kisses the tube reverently, grateful for the magnanimous offering. It seems to lean into his caress, and behind him Prime lets out some soft, indiscernible noise. 

_ I’ll suffer anything for you, my Lord. Do with me as you please. _

_ Your devotion is…  _ “Deliciousss,” Prime hisses the last word out loud. __

The moment is broken when the clone cries out again. Prime’s thumbnail has caught at the edge of one of the awful slashes. He drags it perpendicular so it snags the next gash. “Oh… st-stop…” The clone tries out the word hesitantly, still unused to giving any sort of command to the Emperor, even if it is begging. He wants to continue floating in that pleasant space where the pain passively crackles against the backdrop of Prime’s love. But He doesn’t stop, and the intense ache builds upon itself. This isn’t the quick branding of before, but a prolonged gouging. 

And oh, it’s so slow.

He could make it end any time. Minimize the damage. Indeed, he begs again, “No more ... aah!”

He can’t see Lord Prime’s face, but he can feel the smile in how He completely ignores the plea.

The clone doesn't know how long it takes for Prime to cross all the central cuts. He only knows the crawling torment of it. It feels like eons. His eyes, already watering from before, spill over with tears.

But he does not ask for mercy.

It’s an endurance test. It helps, to  _ ask _ for it to stop, even though he knows it won’t. Every peak of pain, every spike in adrenaline when He rips through another wall of raw flesh, draws out the clone’s voice. It echoes through the throne room, disappearing into the cavernous space above.

He bears it.

He hardly notices when the movement stops. His limbs quake, his weight completely held up by the cables. 

The cables, they’re… loosening. 

He’s lost in the pain. 

A click. A pinch in the back of his neck, a mere tickle compared to everything else. The familiar flow of serum entering his veins. 

Did he ask for mercy? He was sure he hadn’t.

Prime’s rumbling baritone rolls over him, soothing as the medicine. “Just a pick-me-up. We can’t have you passing out.” He catches the clone as the cables unwind, heedless of the blood surely staining His skirts.

“I’m not finished with you yet.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting steamy. Also, implied/threatened planetary destruction?

The manacles at the ends of the cables maneuver the clone’s hands behind his back. He can feel the serum doing its work, clotting his wounds and calming his autonomic nervous system -- enough to clear his head but not enough to take away all of the pain. He still shakes from it.

And Prime’s arms cradle him. Solid. Warm. Unyielding.

The cables move away, though some piece must detach because his wrists are clasped together tightly. When he stirs in Prime’s hold, his injuries protest. Blood tickles his skin as it drips down his arm.

 _I’m making a mess,_ he worries. _The Emperor’s immaculate form is being sullied by my unworthy blood._

The twist of anxiety is almost instantly smoothed over by a hum that starts up in his mind. It's not the murmur of his brothers’ voices, nor is it a trill of contentment, though that is closer to the feeling it gives. It does not come from him.

It comes from the bright Light of Prime. His presence thrums, a deep note of… of…

_Praise, brave one. I am pleased by your resiliency._

The clone blinks, confused. Brave? Resilient? He looks up at Prime, seeking clarity. As ever, He is poised, watching the clone’s reaction with a small smirk.

In his mind, the presence drinks in his astonishment, and the hum pulses as if… laughing. The clone can hardly believe it. All he'd done was hang in his bonds and allow himself to be mutilated. _Enjoyed_ being hurt. Him, worthy of praise?

“Do you question my judgement?” Prime asks out loud, still watching him. 

“Never, my Lord!” the clone is quick to say. Such blasphemy is punishable by death. “I only… am surprised -- but glad! -- to have earned your approval.”

Prime’s voice drops to a low purr that makes the clone’s heart skitter. “Oh, you’ve done more than that, my brave one.” There’s a texture to His voice the clone can't place, something he has never heard from Him before. He doesn't know what to make of it… but it's thrilling nonetheless. 

Effortlessly, Prime carries the clone toward the throne. As his heartbeat evens out (had he really heard anything different in His voice?), he feels incredibly safe being held like this. Even though he can't wrap his own arms around those muscular shoulders for stability. Even though these are the hands that had ripped the blood out of his body and caused the pain he's in. Even so… From here, true Peace feels like more than an abstract concept. If the burning in his back is the roar of _living_ , then the warmth of Prime’s chest is a lullaby. A piece of comfort in the depths of cold space. 

Against his better judgement, the clone lets his eyes drift closed. He inhales Prime's scent, washing away the tang of blood that has dominated his senses. He presses the side of his face to that broad chest, recklessly embracing as much of Him as his limited movement allows. He _feels_ His heart beating against his cheek, strong and steady and infinite. For just one ridiculous moment, he wishes he could stay like this forever. A perfect limbo with pain on one side and pleasure on the other.

Then the world tilts, and he can do nothing to balance himself. But Prime holds him securely. He sits, and the clone is arranged carefully in His lap. He ends up settled on one powerful thigh, his legs dangling between Prime’s.

He keeps his eyes shut, trying to cling to Peace. Instead, his thoughts race again. _Oh, stars. I'm on the throne. I'm_ sitting on the Emperor _on the throne from which armies are commanded and the fates of entire civilizations are decided._

 _Indeed you are, brave one,_ comes the reply. His regal tone rings through the clone's head. _It is a seat of power. You have the fortune of seeing from a perspective no one else can even imagine. From here, I can reach any place in any galaxy I choose. No one can hide from me, not the mightiest of generals… nor the most pitiable of souls. Shall I destroy a star? A planet? It takes naught but a word._

The clone opens his eyes. The sound of gentle beeps comes from the arm of the throne, where Prime types into a hard-light keypad. The great fan-screen (where he'd cracked his head, where he'd bled) flickers to life with visuals of distant lands. It is horribly strange to see colonies on the screen where his brothers go about their duties, yet he cannot connect to them through the hivemind. He is still engulfed by Prime's dominating will.

"Perhaps this one," He says, pausing on one barren landscape. "A dried-up moon at the end of its usefulness. Or this," the image changes to a bustling city of aliens, very much alive and thriving. "Merely one planet in a valuable system, whose leaders have been unwelcoming of my Light.” An edge enters His voice, scornful. “I've considered making an example of this one, though it pains me to waste so much life." His smile displays His fangs. "Well? Shall I give the order?"

The clone is too distracted to answer. While He spoke, Prime stroked his back, sometimes irritating a cut, sometimes caressing a section of wet, but undamaged, skin. Now His hand rests along the clone's ribs, holding him close. He seems completely unconcerned by the dark green lifeblood drying on His arm, His skirts.

The clone tries to focus, letting the ache of his back sweep over the _other_ feelings His touch stirs. Truthfully, he does not want reminders that the universe outside this room exists. But he tamps down that thought quickly, looking to the screen and the unaware aliens going about their lives. 

How can anyone deny Prime’s Will? As he watches them scurry about, his mouth presses into a thin line. Such a sad existence they must have. Their foreign features made their expressions difficult to read--

(Claws skate down his waist. The clone lets out a breath.)

\--but their leaders are fools for rejecting the Light. They’ve doomed these people to darkness, one way or another.

"Surely it is not my place to make such grave decisions, Lord Prime. The burden of command is something I could never conceive." The claws dig into his waist a little, drawing another small gasp. "I-if this is what it takes to bring Peace to the universe…" A lump of some kind is making it difficult to not squirm in His lap. A bunch in the cloth, perhaps? The amused rumble in his head intensifies. 

“You would execute an entire planet in my name?” His voice is silk brushing the clone’s ear. The claws move from his waist to his hip and draw circles where the bone protrudes. 

Of course he would. But he can’t answer because those claws so low on his pelvis make him quiver. They send thrills deep through his body that reach places he has tried to ignore. _Focus on the pain,_ he tells himself, but even that ache feels sweet. It's a simmer that keeps the rest of his nerves alight, intensifying the -- void take it -- _delicious_ feelings stirring in his core.

"Answer me…" His voice is barely a whisper. "I can show you _real_ power, brave one. Those who are beloved in my sight are always rewarded. I've given you a golden opportunity. Will you… _take_ it?"

In his squirming, the clone's bound hands brush the bump in His lap. It moves with the shift of Prime’s hips.

Oh. That is not cloth.

_Oh._

The clone stiffens, ears tingling to their tips. 

This entire scene, this display of control. It was affecting Prime as well.

"I'm waiting." The claws brush over his thigh. 

The clone can hardly breathe. This indulgence of his craven impulses really has pleased Him. In the most unexpected way. Never in the clone's darkest fantasies had he imagined...

He scrambles for something, anything, to say. "You honor me, my Lord. It is by your mercy alone that any of us live."

Prime is silent for a moment. "Mercy, you say?" He lifts his hand from the keypad and turns the clone's face toward His. "Is that a 'no'?"

"Oh!" The clone hadn't even been thinking of that when he spoke. "No -- rather -- not no, not in that way. I…" he trails off, completely losing his train of thought. "Please don't stop."

"Stop what?" He murmurs. His face is very close, the clone realizes. Close enough to…

As soon as the idea takes form in his mind, the hand on his face travels up, then seizes his hair. Prime wrenches the clone's head back, and when he opens his mouth to shout, Prime covers it with His own. The Silver Tongue of Conquest fills him instantly.

The aliens on the screen go about their day, heedless of the danger they've narrowly avoided.


	8. Chapter 8

He's drowning. Falling without moving. Languishing in the depths of Horde Prime's kiss. His Lord holds the clone's head at a painful angle, trapping him, paralyzing him. That  _ tongue, _ that clever instrument of seduction, slides along the length of the clone's own. It curls into the sensitive crevices of his mouth and inspects every contour, from the fleshy underside of his tongue to the ribs of his palate. He feels as though he will be devoured from the inside out, and, oh, he wants to be. To be merged with Prime, to be consumed until he no longer exists, until all is Prime,  _ Prime. _ Indeed, he melts into the steely arms holding him, abandoning any vestige of dignity or prudence. His head spins from lack of air, but he dares not to pull away.

At some point the tongue withdraws enough for him to briefly gasp, but his breath is quickly stolen again when Prime’s fangs sink into his lower lip.  _ Deep. _ The clone tastes blood. A strange, pathetic mewl leaves his throat. It's met with a deep rumble from Prime. His power, His strength, is inescapable, so that even a kiss from Him must turn bloody.

The clone trembles, still shaky from the larger pain in his back. He thoughtlessly strains at the cuffs around his wrists. He's completely powerless to resist or even to balance himself on Prime's lap. He's at the mercy of those faultless arms and vicious claws.

Yet he has never felt more free. Never in all his darkest imaginings had he been this close to the Emperor.

Prime pulls the injured lip between His teeth again, sucking at the minuscule steam of blood and teasing the wound with His tongue. His mind feels almost distracted, as if His faculties are trained on analyzing what He tastes. Can He parse out the healing serum from his bloodstream? A strange thought, but do his elevated hormone levels affect his flavor?

_ Prime has tasted clone blood before. And oh yes, there is a special bouquet to one who is flooded with so many contradictory emotions. _

The clone jerks in Prime's grasp -- to no effect -- the shock of the realization driving his eyes wide open. A single deep green eye stares back at him, all others closed against Prime's inward focus. It dares him to scream, to run, to fear. And his heart does beat faster, his breath come shorter.

Prime has killed His brethren before. He will kill this one, if the mood strikes. The clone's desire to be devoured can be granted in its most literal form.

The arms tighten around him.

Then, slowly, the clone lets his eyes drift back closed. He timidly catches at Prime's mouth with his upper lip and tongue, returning the kiss for the first time.

So be it.

"Mmm…" the noise from Prime sends quakes of feeling rolling throughout the clone's body. In their shared mindscape, he feels the omniscient presence surge, fueled by the worship of the pitiful, brave acolyte. The kiss deepens once again, His tongue twisting with the clone's. 

The clone can't contest the probing, but he does tentatively explore what he can of the Emperor's mouth. The sensation is so strange -- teeth and tongue that feel like his but are not, everything within reach the same warm, wet texture as his own.

Lord Prime tastes like him. It should be logical -- they are of the same genetics after all -- but it's still a revelation.

Even as they tangle together physically, their minds also twist and roll around one another, Him sampling each of the clone's emotions, every peak and spark to match his shy moans, while the clone himself merely bathes in the glorious presence, carried along by the tides of His whims.

It is once again by accident that the clone's hands graze the bulge in Prime’s lap. The Emperor  _ purrs _ and redoubles His grip on the clone's thigh. He grinds His hips upward, practically shoving….  _ it _ into the clone's hands. 

Mentally, he shies from thinking about  _ it. _ He isn't entirely sure what  _ it _ is, though he seems to instinctively know what  _ it _ signifies. He has not thoroughly… explored his own anatomy. He  _ feels _ his lower body reacting, has felt it before, but he'd always been too frightened, too ashamed to do more than hide until the mysterious, wonderful aches ebbed. It wasn't something he'd ever learned about from the hivemind, so therefore he'd buried any questions and dismissed it as an unnecessary distraction.

But here is Prime, freely indulging these lower feelings. The  _ clone _ is the one to have triggered them within Him. It boggles his mind.  _ He _ has aroused Prime and drawn out that purr.

He wants to hear more pleased sounds from Him.

So he stretches his fingers with intention this time, and the protrusion nudges into his palm. A mild hum from Prime vibrates through their connected mouths, and the clone greedily inhales it.

Then His tongue withdraws. Air separates the clone's searching lips from Prime's smiling ones. A chuckle from deep in His chest shakes the clone.

Prime’s arms release him. The clone is dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. He lands on his bound wrists, and agony flares anew from his wounds.

Dread fills him as he blinks up at the Emperor. Did he do something wrong? He's still panting from the intensity of that kiss. Prime, meanwhile, is smiling down at him, barely bothering to hold back a laugh. "Ah, poor creature," He says with a perfectly steady voice. "You know not what you provoke. But I can tell you are resolute about pleasing me. Good. I suppose I shall have to… educate you."

He opens His thighs, and the bulge is in plain view. He hooks one bloody talon under the front panel of His skirts, and draws it aside. The clone is at eye-level with what He reveals. 

_ It _ is a deep azure, a shade less dusky than the rest of His skin. And even as the clone watches, more of it emerges from His sheath, wet and glistening. Two deep grooves spiral down either side of its length, faintly glowing green as if lit from within. It is much thicker than he'd originally assumed when palming the tip through the Emperor’s skirts. Surely nothing so  _ intimidating _ lay within the clone's own closed sheath?

_ Which especially now aches, but he is well-versed at pretending he does not feel it. _

Prime lounges back in His throne, utterly at ease exposing Himself so. "Yes, you do have something  _ similar _ within you. We'll draw it out of you yet. You'll find it can be a very entertaining tool of pleasure… or great pain. Perhaps both, in your case?"

"I…" The clone can find no response. He shivers there on the floor, helpless without his Lord's embrace.

Prime beckons to him. "Come now. You may touch… with whatever can reach." He bares His fangs. "I do recommend you mind your teeth."

The clone hastily obeys the gesture, once again in the position of shuffling toward the throne on his knees. When he is face-to-face with  _ it _ , he glances uncertainly up, up, at Prime's serene expression. The Emperor nods, answering the clone's unspoken question.

Despite the reassurance, he feels as if he could be berated for blasphemy at any moment. Nonetheless, the clone leans between his Lord's knees. He's close enough to feel the heat of this new organ caressing his lips. It reminds him of the kiss. So, he presses his mouth to the shaft in a chaste kiss of his own. A strong pulse beats against his lips, and the skin is velvety beneath its wetness. 

When Prime doesn't react, the clone draws back enough to take a breath, then tries for a more ardent kiss. His lips slide easily against the slick surface. He cautiously sticks out his tongue to taste. Surprisingly, the flavor is somewhat familiar, reminiscent of the amniotic fluid the brothers use when away from the resources of the ship. But muskier, a little salty. It's so novel that he laps harder, out of curiosity, and starts when the member twitches beneath his tongue. He peeks up at Prime again. "Good. Continue," He says.

The clone swallows, still not quite sure what he's doing. But he gamely does as commanded, happy in any case to do His bidding. Prime’s mental presence curls around him, a creature of light and gently rolling thunder. It seems to whisper in his ear, but he doesn't understand the words. Then an invisible force, more of a psychic suggestion, draws his head up, arches his back, and then his mouth level with the head of  _ it. _

A small shift from Prime, and it presses insistently to the clone's lips. He thrills, eager to please. He opens his mouth… and discovers he can't quite fit his lips around the head.

A beleaguered sigh from above. "But of course."

Where the bright grooves meet at the top of the member, a rift appears. The clone watches as the entire thing turns, unwinding itself.

Two erect organs stand before him. Fluid drips in strings between them. 

"Perhaps you will find this configuration more manageable, small one."


End file.
